


The Fever

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Rape/Non-con Elements, Stalker!Castiel, Stalking, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1660853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a puzzle. He is made of unfathomable pieces that Castiel finds, often by accident, and carries around inside of his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, the following involves Castiel following, watching, touching, and eventually having sex with Dean in ways that Dean cannot actually consent to because he is not actually aware of what is happening. You have been warned.

Dean Winchester is a puzzle. He is made of unfathomable pieces that Castiel finds, often by accident, and carries around inside of his chest. He wants, desperately, to figure out how the pieces go together, to have the whole Dean mapped out and clear and comprehensible, but the pieces never click and he’s adding more all the time. He doesn’t understand Dean, not at all, but when he sees Dean he can feel the pieces inside of him shudder and shift and move sluggishly, a bouncing ache of wanting to come together. So he watches Dean, silent and invisible while Dean eats and sleeps and talks to Sam and hunts and dreams and breathes. Watches and waits for the puzzle to come together.

 

***

 

Castiel is in the halls of Heaven. Sam Winchester is a motel room in Moab, Utah. Dean Winchester is six miles away at a bar, alone. Castiel takes flight, and a moment later he is in the bar, too, tucked into a corner and invisible to human eyes.

The pieces in his chest jumble, click.

Angels aren’t supposed to see people. They are supposed to see souls, the ultimate creations of the Father. Pure energy, buzzing with its own power, bleeding will at the edges, careless in its freedom. But souls in bodies are somewhat dimmed, and if an angel tries, he can look past the soul, see the body underneath. Castiel prefers souls, generally, but he finds himself always wanting to look at Dean Winchester’s face.

Castiel has always appreciated art on a rational level. Much of it is even quite flattering to his own kind. But Castiel does not  _understand_ art. No angel does, really, because art is about visceral, emotional reaction. Art is about feeling. Castiel does not understand art because he has no feelings to engage, not really. Not the right kind.

When Castiel looks at Dean Winchester as he smiles (tight around the eyes) and leans across the bar to take his beer, he wants to understand art. He feels the hole in his chest of the feelings he cannot have because he is the wrong kind of being for this. The pieces in his chest clatter in the dark, empty space as they try to rearrange.

Some part of Castiel knows that Dean would be very (very) angry if he knew Castiel were watching him, but most of Castiel doesn’t care because Dean Winchester will never know what Castiel does not tell him. Dean Winchester does not have the capacity to know such things without being told. And Castiel is just trying to learn, just trying to comprehend. Dean is the Righteous Man. He is the territory of angels, and yet he is so far from their grasp. Castiel must understand him, must know him so that he can do his job properly. So that he can be the angel that the Righteous Man needs.

The angel that Dean needs.

 

***

 

Castiel burns hugely, more brightly than anything a human has ever experienced, more brightly than the nuclear fusion of stars. Angels do not like to fold themselves into vessels because it is a diminishing of their physical presence. The angels who scoff at humans dislike it particularly, because without humans, angels would never have needed vessels at all.

Castiel likes his vessel. Likes to compare his human hands to Dean’s hands, likes to grip his blade and fight with his fists because people can  _see_ him do it. People can understand his strength and his intelligence and his skill. People can understand that he, Castiel, is something impressive.

He wants Dean to understand.

 

***

 

Castiel thinks that people are supposed to look peaceful when they sleep. Sort of softened, like all their worries are off their shoulders, just for a few hours. This is not the case with Dean. Maybe it is the mess with his brother, maybe it is the knowledge of what he did in Hell, maybe it is simply the burden of his life, but most nights, Castiel watches Dean sleep, and Dean doesn’t look any more content than when he’s awake.

Except for after he’s been with a woman. Then, at least for an hour or two, the lines of his face settle out and he’s calm. Castiel likes it when Dean is calm, but he doesn’t like the way watching Dean with a woman makes the pieces in his chest jar and clang and stab into the space of lungs, making breathing hurt. Castiel doesn’t have to breathe, but this body needs oxygen and he’d rather inhale and exhale than use traces of his Grace keeping it on its feet all the time. Everything in his head is such a jumble, and breathing like a human helps him feel grounded.

Castiel stands by the bed. He used to stand in the corner of the room, but he realized quickly how silly he was being. It’s not as though either Winchester knows he is present, so why make it so difficult for himself to observe. And that’s all he’s doing, observing. So over the weeks he has come closer, until now he stands with his thighs pressed against the edge of the mattress.

Dean’s chest rises and falls. He’s in an old t-shirt tonight, his amulet twisted up and settled into the hollow of one of his collarbones. His lips are slightly parted, and Castiel can see the way his breath disturbs the hairs beneath his nose with each soft exhale. One of his eyebrows is mussed from where it was rubbed into the pillow an hour or so ago.

Castiel aches. Dean’s pieces are restless, tumbling and rising, swirling and constricting around his esophagus.

He realizes suddenly that his hand is outstretched, that it’s trying to smooth out the disheveled eyebrow, and he pulls it back sharply. He is only here to observe. He is only here to know the Righteous Man better, so that  _he_ can be better.

He is only here to serve Heaven. To serve Dean.

 

***

 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. He has fluttered into the room of a motel where Sam is sitting at a little round table and Dean is behind him, leaning in with a hand on Sam’s right shoulder as they look at the screen of Sam’s computer. “Sam,” he continues, nodding. The skin of his right shoulder feels tight, twitchy under the fabric of his coat.

“What’s going on, Cas?” Dean asks, standing straight. But this is not the casual way Castiel has watched him toss it at other people in passing, or the careful way he says it to Sam as they sit on the hood of Dean’s car without looking at one another. This is all business, because Castiel isn’t supposed to pop in just to say hello.

Dean wouldn’t care if he did.

His chest is gaping blackness inside, a maw full of broken pieces that crunch like glass as they are squeezed by the look in Dean’s eyes.

Castiel wants to pop in for hellos. Castiel does not understand how to start.

 

***

 

Castiel strokes his fingers softly around the curve of Dean’s cheekbones. They are ovular, gentle swells of bone under his touch, so familiar to him now. He traces them again and again until the line between Dean’s eyebrows smooths out. The hollowness in his chest is fuller, like some of the pieces have finally started to come together now that he’s given in and actually helped his charge.

Dean sleeps better like this. Castiel hadn’t meant to touch him, the first time, but Dean’s face had been so unsettled, teeth biting into the plushness of his lower lip and a faint groan of pain and unhappiness sounding in the back of his throat. And Castiel had merely reached out to check into his dreams, to provide a soothing blanket of power that would ease him back into more restful sleep but—but Dean’s skin is so soft. It’s not like the skin of other humans, and Castiel’s fingers had moved without his control, sliding across the plane of his forehead, brushing into his hairline. Dean had begun to stir, so Castiel had let loose a bit of his power and given Dean the sleep that he deserved. Kept stroking Dean’s face until all of the tension had slid away. Kept touching all through the night, to ensure that Dean rested peacefully.      

Dean likes it, Castiel knows. He must because he sleeps so much better when Castiel is here, running his fingers so carefully down Dean’s arms, across his chest. Sleeps better when Castiel pulls the blanket away and lets Dean be warmed by his Grace, cradled and taken care of the way that the Righteous Man deserves. Dean feels trapped, Castiel knows, trapped by his life and his duty and his circumstances, and Castiel knows that Dean needs him here at night to take it all away, to let Dean be free in a way he can’t when he’s awake.

Sam snuffles and coughs in the next bed, and Castiel pulls his hands away abruptly. He’s gotten used to the sounds Sam makes, knows when Sam is about to blink himself awake, knows when he should go. But he’s not ready to stop touching Dean tonight. Dean still needs him. The pieces in Castiel’s chest are rattling alarmingly at the idea that he might abandon Dean like this. So Castiel stands up swiftly, crosses to the other bed, presses his fingers to Sam’s forehead, watches as the tension drains away and Sam settles into deep sleep once again. It’s better this way, really. Now Dean can have his Cas for as long as he needs him, and Sam will sleep better, too, and that will just make things yet better for Dean tomorrow. Castiel should really have thought of this before. He’s been so selfish.

Dean has spread out a bit in Castiel’s absence, so he nudges his side until he shifts over. Castiel settles on the bed, lets himself stretch out and feel the line of Dean’s body pressed up against his, how warm he feels even through the layers of Castiel’s human clothing.

Castiel leans over and anoints Dean’s forehead with his lips because Dean needs to be reminded that he has always been, will always be chosen by the angels.

 

***

 

Castiel is not called down as a friend. Castiel is called down to help fight monsters, to provide information about Heaven’s secrets, to make plans. Castiel goes, even though it makes the jangle of the broken pieces bigger and louder in the increasingly hollow space in his chest, because Castiel can always help the Winchesters, even when he cannot help himself.

 

***

 

Castiel brushes his fingers gently across Dean’s forehead, watches as the soft curl of Dean’s eyelashes flutters open. Dean has nightmares—not loud ones, like Sam’s, but quiet fits that cause spasms in his eyelids and tremors in his muscles. Castiel knows that the Righteous Man should not be subjected to such pains, so he wakes Dean now without really waking him, lets himself talk to Dean in a soothing voice while Dean’s subconscious is so open and suggestible, reminds Dean how he is so great and so good because Dean should know how very perfect he is. Castiel is an angel and he knows many things, but he has never known anything as perfect as Dean Winchester, anything that was so in need of his protection.

Dean should never be burdened by the things he was forced to do. He needs Castiel to tell him that.

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice raspy with sleep, and Castiel glances briefly over at Sam to ensure that the deep slumber he had induced is unaffected by the noise. “You’re here.” Castiel nods.

“Hello, Dean,” he replies.

“You always say that,” Dean says, with a little huff of a laugh. He glances around, his eyes a little tight. “How did I get here? I was..I was back in the Pit and I was—“

“Shh, Dean,” Castiel soothes, and he strokes his fingers gently up Dean’s knee and thigh where it’s next to him on the bed. “It’s over now; I’m here with you, and everything is all right. We’re together and everything is fine.”

Dean nods in that easy way, so malleable in this state, in the way he never is when he is awake and infuriating. It feels like Dean has become even more standoffish since Castiel started visiting his dreams, like perhaps he is angry at his own mind for needing Castiel. Castiel can understand that; Dean is never very good at admitting when he needs someone like he needs his angel.

"We’re together,” Dean echoes.

“Yes,” Castiel says, and raises his fingers to brush along Dean’s cheekbone. “Isn’t it better like this?” he asks, letting his thumb run along the line of Dean’s jaw, sweeping just under his bottom lip.

“Better,” Dean echoes, nodding again. He’s looks so content and warm and beautiful and the pieces in Castiel’s chest are flying now, razor sharp edges cutting into every inch of his being and he  _needs_ Dean to stop this, to make this pain go away  _now_ .

“Let me kiss you, Dean,” he says softly, letting himself fall closer to Dean’s mouth.

"Cas, I’m not—we’re not supposed to do this,” Dean replies, and Castiel can see the struggle between the sleepy, easy parts of him that want to obey and the conscious brain that wants to interfere.

“It’s all right, Dean,” he says, cupping Dean’s jaw in his hand. “It’s not real. I want to do this. I know you want to do this, too. Just listen to me, okay?” He lets his Grace flow into Dean, soothing the parts of him that are afraid. Castiel understands being afraid, but the taboo of angels and humans copulating pales in comparison to what is between them.

“Okay,” Dean murmurs, angling his chin up towards Castiel.

“Dean,” he whispers and he leans forward and he presses his mouth to Dean’s like he’s seen humans do to each other. The motion of Dean’s pieces inside him begins to ease, swirling softly like snowflakes where Castiel is dark and cold but warming up now with Dean’s mouth against his.

Castiel has never done this before but Jimmy has and his vessel knows to press in and lick along Dean’s lips. Dean lets out a little sigh, presses his lips back into Castiel’s, opens his mouth when Castiel’s tongue searches again for entrance.

Castiel pulls away, and Dean is watching him with those easy eyes. “You’re so good, Dean,” he says, as he stands up and tugs off his jackets, hastily unbuttons his shirt, gets off each and every one of Jimmy’s layers until he’s standing before Dean fully naked with Jimmy’s cock hard and leaking. Castiel has been this way around Dean before, but he’s never undressed, never looked at himself, and he touches a hand to his human penis, shuddering in wonder.

“Oh,” he says softly, and Dean echoes it, draws his attention back. “Take your clothes off,” he says, his voice low, and Dean complies, of course, because Dean knows that he needs this just like Castiel needs this. They are a pair, the Righteous Man and his angel, and this Dean is open and not held back by all the confusion that clouds his brain when he’s not just  _listening_ to Castiel.

“Good, so good, Dean,” he murmurs once Dean is naked on the bed, and he runs his hands all over the skin of Dean’s chest and arms, so familiar, and then lets his hands go lower, to new flesh he has yet to explore. Dean’s penis is hot and half-hard, and clasping it in his hand causes the pieces in his chest to whirl into a frenzy again. Dean’s pieces, guiding him, telling him what Dean needs to be whole. He works his hand over the flesh, watching in fascination as it grows as stiff as his own.

“Tell me you want this, Dean,” he says, as he presses his lips down the side of Dean’s neck.

"I want this,” Dean says, and then he groans as Castiel’s fingers find one of his nipples and rub. Castiel knows how to do this. He has watched Dean watch movies all about sex, has watched Dean have sex with other people. Castiel keeps kissing, down and down until he reaches the nest of hair encircling Dean’s penis, buries his nose in it and inhales. It’s not like the smell of the hair on Dean’s head, which Castiel has smelled many times now. This hair smells like sweat and musk, and Castiel has to squeeze his eyes shut against the wave of physical feeling that the smell creates in his human body.

When he closes his mouth around Dean’s penis, Dean’s hips jerk up to meet him. Castiel wants to smile. He knew how Dean longed for this connection, but it feels so good to have Dean show it.

This blow job is more difficult than it looks when women do it on the TV or in the bathroom with Dean, but he knows that this is one of Dean’s favorite things so he pushes forward, even as spit gets all over his chin and drips down onto his hands where they lovingly stroke across Dean’s sac and brush back into the cleft of Dean’s buttocks. He presses against the furled muscle there with one finger until it gives way and he slips inside. The heat is tight and incredible, and Castiel moans around the penis in his mouth. Dean’s hands are clenching at the sheets and Castiel can hear him panting over the wet sounds inside his own mouth, and then Dean is tensing up and ejaculating.

Castiel is very glad he does not actually need to breathe as he pulls his mouth away and swallows.

He looks up at Dean, who is still sitting there, propped up against the headboard as he was when Castiel woke him up, but now he looks slightly dazed and there is a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Castiel reaches up, runs his fingers through it, sucks the taste of Dean’s sweat into his mouth alongside the taste of Dean’s semen. He shudders, groans, feels it vibrate against the pads of his fingers.

He should leave, he knows, but the pieces inside of him are furious in their cavity, like molten metal now with the way they are burning him up inside. Dean liked this, yes, but it wasn’t enough. He has to show Dean how loved he is, how perfect, how much Castiel cherishes him. How complete they are together.

He pushes Dean’s legs up and open, back towards Dean’s stomach so that the cheeks of his buttocks are spread and the hole is exposed. Dean sometimes watches his pornographic movies with two men and one woman, so Castiel has seen this, too, seen how a man can sink into another man’s body. “Hold your legs like this,” Castiel says, looking up at Dean, who is staring down at him with a blank expression, and Dean complies, wrapping his thick fingers under his knees and pulling back.

Castiel shifts forward, lines himself up with Dean’s hole, and presses in. But the ring of muscle there does not want to give, does not want to open up the way it does in Dean’s movies, so he presses forward harder even though it hurts his own aching penis to do it. Presses until he hears a wounded noise leave Dean’s mouth, and then his eyes flash up to Dean’s face. Dean’s brow is furrowed and his eyes look wet and the way he says, “Cas?” turns the pieces in his chest to ice.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says hastily, and he takes his hand off his penis, presses his fingers against Dean’s forehead and urges his Grace to ease away the pain. Something about this situation isn’t right. His penis is too big, and Dean is dry and closed to him. It’s not working like the movies at all. But his finger was able to slip inside earlier, so maybe he needs to start smaller, get something to ease the way.

He disappears and reappears in an instant, the bottle of lotion from the motel bathroom in his hand. Dean sits there placidly, still holding his legs open as instructed, as Castiel twists the bottle open and dumps the greasy lotion onto his fingers. He presses one inside of Dean, and it glides much more smoothly than before.

“Oh,” Castiel breathes again, and he watches Dean’s face, waits for the tension around his eyes to ease before he adds a second and then a third, pumping his hand carefully as Dean starts to make faint little grunting sounds deep inside his chest.

Castiel smiles, pulls his fingers out. He squeezes a little more lotion onto his hand and rubs it over his penis, shivering again at the feeling. This time when he lines up, he’s able to get inside with only a reasonable amount of pressure.

When Castiel is fully inside of Dean, it feels all of a sudden like everything in his chest has finally, finally clicked into place. This is the complete picture, the thing he has been struggling to find all these months. The puzzle of Dean solves itself when Dean and Castiel are truly together.

When Castiel is fully inside of Dean, he thinks that if only every angel could experience this, they would all love humanity just as their Father had desired.

His hips start moving of their own accord, and the feeling is incredible, incomparable. He leans forward and presses his forehead against Dean’s, presses their lips together again and again. It shifts the angle of his hips and when he thrusts in again, Dean makes a broken off moan of pleasure, so Castiel repeats the motion again and again and again, faster and faster until he is completely out of control and he knows it but cannot stop it, cannot stop until the heat building in his groin has spread out into his toes and fingertips and then rushed back into his core and he is suddenly ejaculating into Dean’s body.

It takes a long moment for his awareness to come back into his body, and then he carefully pulls himself out of Dean, who makes a regretting little noise. Castiel chuckles, spreads himself out on the bed next to Dean. His vessel feels sweaty and sated.

“Cas?” Dean asks, head turned to look at him.

“I love you,” Castiel replies, reaching out to skip his fingers down the pattern of freckles on Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure that having sex with an angel has to be a sin,” Dean says, and it sounds a bit like Dean when he’s awake.

Castiel smirks. “It’s not a sin if it isn’t real, Dean,” he answers a little sadly, and it’s not real because tomorrow Dean won’t remember anything that happened. He reaches out his fingers and brushes them across Dean’s forehead again. “Go to sleep now, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his eyelids drooping immediately.

Castiel looks at Dean for another long moment, and then he gets up, puts Dean back in his shirt and boxers, eases him down onto the pillow and pulls up the blankets. He brushes his hand reluctantly over Dean’s face, cleaning the sweat and fluids away from Dean’s body so that he is clean once more.

Castiel knows he needs to go back to Heaven and check in, but for a long moment he simply watches Dean sleep and enjoys the feeling of stillness in his chest.

 

***

 

Castiel watches as Dean fills up the Impala at a Gas‘n’Sip in eastern Michigan. Sam wanders out of the convenience store and tosses over a bag of beef jerky, which Dean attempts to catch one-handed and fumbles.

Sam laughs. “Nice one.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, shaking the excess drops of gasoline off the nozzle before replacing it on the pump. “Hey, you take a turn driving,” he continues, walking around the trunk of the car, just in front of where Castiel stands. Castiel wants to reach out a hand, run his fingers along the back of Dean’s, but he remains invisible.

“Everything all right?” Sam asks as Dean passes over the keys.

“Just haven’t slept so well the past few days,” Dean replies, casting his eyes down for a moment before tugging the passenger door open. “Feel sort of...off,” he finishes as he climbs in, pulls the door shut.

Sam gives him a long look. “Okay,” he says, and heads to the driver’s seat.

Castiel smiles as he watches them pull away, the loose pieces inside of him fluttering faintly. He will go to Dean tonight, take care of his Righteous Man in the way only Castiel can. Poor, sweet Dean who hasn’t been sleeping.

It’s clear how much Dean needs him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [beerstiel](http://beerstiel.tumblr.com) and [castielsama](http://castielsama.tumblr.com) for turning our fluffy conversation about how adorable unrequited love!Castiel would be because he'd have no idea how to interact with Dean romantically, into a fic where Cas is stalking Dean and exploiting his powers for evil.


End file.
